The Little Things that Matter
by Christophine
Summary: The lives of the littles are never easy, and the most difficult challenges are often those that come from family. *Story collection, Dinky Little and Grandpa Little centered*
1. Growing Pains

The Little Things that Matter

Summary: The lives of the littles are never easy, and the most difficult challenges are often those that come from family.

Growing Pains

Grandpa Little had never been an early riser. Not even in his high school days, though his football coach harped on the rewards of training in the early morning hours. The hours until the sun made an appearance just held no interest for him.

So when he found himself wide awake at 5:27 am for the fifth time that week, he knew it boded nothing good. He rose from his bed, drawing back the covers slowly as he listened for any sound. The home was still, though, save for the creaks of the floor above them. Even if the bigs were moving about this early they wouldn't have woken him. Even Tom's cries to be fed and Helen's shushing couldn't pull him out of a dead sleep.

But he hadn't slept that soundly for days now.

Just as it had before, his mind fixed on the extra bedroom he and Frank had cleaned out less than a month ago, and he donned his slippers and robe to head in that direction. The red and green Christmas lights hooked across the wall helped him stumble along his path in the otherwise pitch darkness. The door to the spare room was closed, but a quick jiggling of the round button handle proved that it wasn't bolted. He carefully opened the door a crack and peered in.

The room, newly whitewashed, only sported Helen's newly made rug and a dollhouse bed with a tin lampstand. It was all they'd been able to round up for the time being, though Frank had his heart set on baseball cards for posters. Eventually, it would be Tom's bedroom when he outgrew his bassinet, so there was time enough until then.

At the moment, the room served for their visitors; unexpected, Grandpa realized as he stepped inside in the room, in more ways than one. The Christmas lights didn't tread far enough inside; all he could make out was the bed itself with its headboard against the far wall, and what might have been blankets or a sleeping little, or both. As he moved closer softly, though, he could see that one side of the blankets had been stretched out in a messy attempt to remake the bed. The other side of the blankets were tucked around a small form, whose soft breathing met Grandpa's ears as he stood at the end of the bed.

Only the child. Grandpa rested his hand on the footboard and turned his head to blink in the darkness. But unless she had chosen to hide under the rug or behind the door, it was obvious that she wasn't in the room.

He took a shaky breath, fighting for control. Yes, that was exactly the nagging worry that had woken him and sent him to check this room every single time. The past four mornings he'd found her fast asleep, her son cuddled up next to her. The shadowy mass that normally rested at the foot of the bed also missing. Grandpa bent to feel about the floor, just to be sure. Sure enough, her duffle bag was gone.

"So," he whispered, feeling the pit in his stomach. "You've done it at last, have you? Couldn't have held out longer, could you?"

He gripped the footboard for a moment as his vision swam. A thousand different cries rose before his mind; none that he was ready to deal with. When he managed to right himself, he found he was looking down at the sleeping child.

"And here I thought…maybe…" Grandpa shook his head. He stretched out a hand to smooth the hair sticking up at all ends, and stopped when the faint sound of clinking caught his attention. He turned to the doorway, listening again.

Maybe he was wrong. Forgetting the boy, he hurried out of the room as fast as he dared. Maybe she hadn't after all…

He came to end of the hallway before he saw the faint candle light in the dining area of the family kitchen. A pot of coffee sat steaming on the table, and the cover removed from the tin of biscuits from last night's dinner.

Leaning against the counter, Maeva was quietly sipping from a mug. "Good morning."

If she was as surprised to see him as he was to see her, she certainly made no intention to show it. Her face was carefully guarded as always, from the somber look in her eyes to the stoic line of her mouth.

Nothing had changed there.

"You're up early," she said.

"Well, I…I…" Grandpa struggled for the right words-something flippant, perhaps-as he tied his robe snuggly. "…Early bird gets the worm and all."

"Hm." Maeva took another drink. "So, did you?"

"I haven't decided whether it's even worth it," he huffed, pouring his own coffee. Run-about conversations had never been his game, and he had just opened his mouth to demand why she was up so early when he finally spotted the duffel bag by the back tunnel of their home. On top of it was an old basket they'd used for picnics, and by the way the blue towel strained to cover the opening, the basket was packed full.

Grandpa looked back to Maeva, taking in her battered coat and the pilot's cap that fitted around her yellow hair, both of which served as the final pieces in dashing his hope.

Maeva's reserve didn't falter under his gaze. "I told you I didn't know how long I could stay, big brother."

"Would stay, you mean." Grandpa struggled to keep his voice down. Anger boiled itself inside. "Don't you 'big brother' me, you…you…"

"Oh, just call me whatever you want and get it over with." Maeva dropped her cup in the sink and crossed her arms. "You've been dying to call me names all week. Just make it something good this time, would you?"

"How about irresponsible mother?" Grandpa shot back. "Is that good enough for you?"

"Well, it's not one of your best, but it beats 'airhead', so I guess-"

"Maeva, why?" Grandpa Little fisted his hands to keep from reaching out and throttling her. "Why would you do this to him? How could you do this to him?"

"This isn't about him."

"This is every bit about him!" He couldn't believe that she could stand there looking so serene. "How can you come all this way just to leave him with relatives he's never met?"

"He's met you all now. And he likes you, too." A wry smile crossed Maeva's face. "He's been happier here for the last week than he's ever been in his life."

"That's no reason to abandon a six-year-old!"

"No, there are better reasons." The smile vanished. "And I've got a million of them, if I only had the time."

"You spent plenty of time dodging everyone's questions."

"Because my problems are mine, and none of your business."

"None of my business, huh?" Grandpa, suddenly weary, dropped into the nearest chair. He pulled the cup of coffee towards him, though he only stared at the contents. "Your life is none of my business. Well, where have I heard that before? Let me think-"

"Eleven years ago," Maeva snapped, her coolness suddenly ruffled. "March 19, exactly. Four days after Thomas Little died. I remember when I left, and I remember what I said. It's as true now as it was back then."

Grandpa ran a hand over his face; the better to hide back the pain. "He always wanted you to call him Dad, Maeva."

"He wasn't my Father." No pause. No excuse. No inclination that she was feeling the same hurt he felt.

"He tried to be," Grandpa protested.

"Trying isn't being. He wasn't my Father."

"Maeva…"

"He wasn't my Father. Jenna Little wasn't my mother, and you aren't my brother. You all tried-"

"And we failed." Grandpa slapped the hand on the table. "So you still think that? That we failed at being your family somehow?"

"No."

"You think Mother and Father didn't care about you? After everything they did for you? You think I never cared about you?" His heart was bursting now with everything he had wanted to say; not just in the past week, but during those years that she had been gone. He'd never been able to talk to her, not since mother had brought her to live with them, not in the entire time they'd spent growing up together.

And not now. Though he could see her hands shaking, her eyes had turned stony and determined. "I think you cared too much."

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" He put a hand to his head to stop the pounding.

"I couldn't breathe here. I couldn't feel here. I couldn't go anywhere. You wanted me safe and guarded and here at all times. I couldn't do that anymore. I told you all that before I left!"

"Yes, you did," Grandpa agreed, roughly. The memory passed his mind- standing at a different tunnel, watching a much younger Maeva swing that same duffel bag over her shoulder and listening to her explain why she was leaving…that yellow-haired little who had never been quite family, and yet was the only sister he would ever have. He'd fought over and over to take care of her and keep her safe, and it still hadn't mattered one ounce. He'd had to keep thinking of Sally and young Helen, still fast asleep in their beds, and remind himself as he trudged back home that he still had a family left…All those years, he'd tried to trick himself into believing that it was all for the best.

And then Maeva's letter, the first in eleven years had come:

Stopping by. See you then.

She'd shown up in that rickety plane of hers immediately after, with nothing except that old duffle bag, and that bright-eyed little boy. Not a word about where she'd been or how she'd been; not an apology for not writing before. Not even an explanation about her son, except to push him in Grandpa's direction and exclaim, "Say hello to your nephew," before she even bothered with a hello to him herself.

And yet, he'd still hoped she had come back to stay. He'd still hoped that maybe something had changed during that time-maybe she'd found what she wanted-and he could have his family back, whole and loving.

"But, it was never your plan, was it?" he finished the thought aloud, his disappointment threatening tears. "You never intended to come back to stay."

Finally, a genuine look of regret passed over Maeva's face. "I never intended to come back at all."

Yes, so he had guessed. And the answer to why she had bothered to return at all was sleeping in the guest bedroom.

Grandpa Little understood that now, at least.

He hunched against the table, putting both hands around his cup. "And what do you expect me to tell him when he wakes up? Huh? Should I tell him you'll be back around sometime before he's eighteen, or are you hoping he won't notice?"

Maeva shook her head; in agreement or disapproval, he couldn't tell. "He's happier here," she repeated her words from earlier, "and that's all that matters," she added, as if to herself.

"And late at night, when he's missing you and crying in his sleep, what should I tell him then?"

Maeva straightened up and headed for the tunnel.

"When he wants to know where you went, what do I tell him?"

Maeva fastened the cap's under her chin before bending down for the bag's and basket.

"When he asks about his father, what do I tell him?"

He thought he heard her grunt, "That he's better off," as she swung the duffel bag to her shoulder, but he couldn't be sure.

"Maeva." He stood up, ready to run after her, ready to yank that filthy bag from her shoulder and throw it as far away as he could. She wasn't running off again. She couldn't do that to him. She was his sister. Blood or not, she had always been his sister. That mattered to him.

Maeva stood fast in the doorway as though waiting for him to speak, but there was that resentful glare in her eyes; that same look that had marred her since she was a small child. She'd carried it through her life, despite his best efforts.

Grandpa Little was suddenly too worn and too old. Mother and Father were gone, and so was Sally this time, but there was Frank and Helen and Tom…and…and…

Slowly, he took his seat again and picked up his coffee. "I...I hope you find what it is you want this time." He took a drink, and painfully swallowed the lukewarm mess, avoiding her eyes. "Send a letter if you change your mind. You'll always know where to find me. But, if you can't find the time to write…" He hesitated, staring intently at the lines in his hand as his resolve faltered.

Think of the boy. "…If you can't take the time to write, then you might as well just stay away. There's no point to you coming and going out of his life. He…he deserves better."

Silence followed as he kept his eyes fixed on his hand. He fought not to fill it. He'd said his piece. It was Maeva's turn.

Her reply was clear. He heard the rustle of the duffle bag against her coat, and the tapping of her footsteps as she headed down the tunnel.

The sun was already streaming through the vents from the rooms of the bigs; its rising had gone unnoticed during their fight. Grandpa pushed his cup aside and laid his head on his arms, hearing the echo of Maeva's steps even long after they had faded away.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, listening to the stirring of the bigs in their morning routine. The soft sound of a yawn roused him at last, he craned his neck over his shoulder to view the visitor.

Maeva's little boy stumbled out of the dark hallway into the dining room, rubbing an eye with his fist. The white shirt Frank had offered as a nightshirt dwarfed him, puddling around his feet, though he didn't seem to notice as he walked on the hem to reach Grandpa.

"Hello." The sleepy voice spoke of dreams and a goodnight's sleep. "G' morning."

"Good morning, Dinky Little," he replied, cautiously watching him. The boy was a bundle of energy, darting from one place to place, sticking his nose into every business, and finding trouble where there shouldn't have been any; all the while chirping in an awed voice, "What's this do? What's this do?"

There was no telling what he would do next.

At the moment, though, it wasn't the child's recklessness that concerned Grandpa. He wondered if Dinky had noticed the missing duffle bag.

"Did you...did you sleep well?" he asked, as Dinky leaned against his leg.

"Yeah. I'm hungry."

"Is that so?" Grandpa couldn't help but tousle the yellow hair. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Hm. Pie." The little face broke out into a smile, and the child began to climb up in Grandpa's lap. The child's trusting nature, so much the opposite of Maeva's self-guarding ways, still startled him more than his energy. The little boy had all but bounded into his arms during that first meeting, after all, exclaiming, "You're so old! Are you my Grandpa?"

Grandpa snorted as he swept Dinky up with one arm, and busied himself untangling the hem of the shirt from around the boy's feet.

"No, I don't think we'll have pie this morning. That's not a good breakfast." He quickly pushed the cup of coffee out of hand's reach before the boy could dip his fingers in it.

"But I like it." Dinky's protest was a murmur as he laid his head against Grandpa's shoulder.

Grandpa couldn't help a chuckle. "Oh, you do, huh? Well, we'll remember that for some other time, won't we?"

"Mm hm." The little arms wrapped around his neck. Grandpa held him, feeling the warmth of the little body as he wrapped his own arms around him, enjoying the peace of the moment.

"Where's my Mum?" Dinky asked, his voice a whisper as he dozed against Grandpa's shoulder.

And there it was. Questions already. Grandpa took a breath, preparing himself. "She's...she's gone away, Dinky."

"Where?"

"...I don't know." Abruptly, Grandpa kissed Dinky's cheek and watched the blue eyes blink at him. "But I'm here, and that will count for something. Eventually," he promised, as fervently to the boy as he did to the empty tunnel.

Dinky's answer was a little sigh as he closed his eyes again. Whether or not he understood didn't matter to Grandpa. What mattered was that the horrible pain that had been twisting inside of him, turning from anger to disappointment and back again, eased. Perhaps it wasn't gone entirely, just like Maeva would never be gone entirely, but at least it resolved itself in a way that Grandpa Little could contain. One family was gone, but he still had another that wanted him and needed him.

Helen, and Tom, and Frank…and Dinky.

"Welcome home," he whispered.


	2. Old Wounds

Old Wounds

They'd been out of Rome for two days when Dinky developed a fever.

Grandpa's fingers thrummed against his knee as he tried not to look once again at the couch where Dinky still slept in a haze. Henry's camera box certainly wasn't the quietest place to sleep, what with the three younger Littles laughing and carrying on at the screen, and the sounds of Florence's traffic blaring around them as Henry traversed the streets with his parents. The box bumping against the boy's side didn't make the trip any easier. Grandpa winced as the box shook again.

"Might as well be on a boat," he grumbled, grabbing his chair for a handhold. It wasn't Henry's fault- Grandpa knew that- and up until today the bumping hadn't bothered him a bit.

Neither had Dinky's listlessness.

"I'm just thinking," Dinky had said the day after they'd left the coliseum, when he had to be called several times.

"About Cara!" Lucy teased, and they all had a good laugh while Dinky spluttered. Well, of course, he was mopping about that girl, Grandpa reassured himself. What else could it be?

"I'm just tired," Dinky had murmured the next day, surprising them all by turning down an offer to explore Florence. Then he'd rejected the food they brought back with them and promptly emptied what was left in his stomach into the closest waste basket.

"Poor Dinky," Lucy had exclaimed, while the boys watched in surprise.

"Well, travel doesn't agree with my stomach either," Grandpa reassured them, somehow ignoring that nagging feeling that crept up in his gut. Dinky managed a drink of water and some crackers later; that satisfied Grandpa's concerns.

Now it was day three, and Dinky had barely stirred from the couch. The children had tried shaking him awake earlier to see the sights until Grandpa told them to leave him be. Now he was about to start shaking the boy himself.

He glanced at the watch that worked as their clock. It had been an hour since Lucy had insisted on taking Dinky's temperature. No amount of protests or reasoning from any of them could change her mind.

"Oh, just let the little nurse have her way!" Ashley finally snickered, and Tom joined him.

The 101 degree reading from the thermometer had stopped Grandpa's laughter in its tracks.

"Hold on, now, sweetheart. You must have read that wrong." He had taken her place by Dinky's side and reset the thermometer to try again.

Yes, she had gotten it wrong.

Dinky's fever was 102 degrees.

Since then, Grandpa had been clock watching and trying to ignore that nasty wrenching in his guts. He'd given Dinky some medication for the fever and the headache he whined about, but Grandpa couldn't help feeling that there was something he was missing. His fingers inched towards the medical kit he'd set right by his chair, but each time he drew them back, mulling over the symptoms and trying to remember.

"Look, Grandpa! Look!" Lucy's pigtails bobbed up and down in excitement as she hopped on her feet. Grandpa craned his neck in her direction, but concern kept him from seeing any of the sights.

"Yes, Lucy, it's very exotic." He blinked when the children burst into spasms of laughter.

"Grandpa, it's a park!" Lucy corrected him.

"Oh? Well, I'm sure it's very nice, then." He folded his arms and shifted in his chair again, then seized the kit. Memory be damned, he decided, seizing thermometer again.

Dinky's eyes opened when Grandpa bent over him and put a hand to his shoulder, though he only moaned for answer when Grandpa whispered his name and placed the thermometer in his mouth. Grandpa ended up having to hold the instrument in place himself as Dinky seemed unable to fully rouse from sleep. He braced himself against the couch, examining the flushed face while he waited. Something seemed all too familiar about this, a déjà vu that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He kept seeing the locker room from his football days, but what in tarnation that had to do with Dinky he couldn't piece together.

All he knew for sure, as he stared numbly at the thermometer, was that Dinky's fever was spiking.

"Great Littles, save us," he sighed to the sick pilot. "Trust you to catch some foreign disease while we're stuck out here."

Dinky's ragged breaths were his only answer. Grandpa rubbed his eyes with his hand, willing himself to think calmly. They were still a week away from a flight home. He knew there had been some reason for the delay, but it escaped him now, confab it.

 _Alright, Little, that's enough! Think!_ He told himself sharply. He watched as his hand, moving of its own accord, rubbed Dinky's arm. Home was not an option. They needed to do something else; return to the hotel, perhaps. The Little emergency box he and Frank had outfitted before they'd left the US came into his mind's eyes, tucked away in his suitcase. It had all the possible contacts the Littles council could think of to find friends in the known world. Once the coast was clear, he'd have to show Tom and Ashley how to use them to contact any Littles in the area.

Because they needed help. Fast.

"Grandpa?" He turned his head at Tom's call. "Is Dinky still sick?"

"Yes, Tom," he answered, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. He busied himself tugging off Dinky's jacket. The pilot's ridiculous cap and googles had been packed away safely in a suitcase sometime the day before, but he'd stubbornly clung to his jacket, whining that he was cold.

He didn't whimper this time, though Grandpa caught him wince as he tried to lift him to pull the jacket away.

"Dinky?" he asked, leaning closer. "What is it, boy?"

Dinky's eyes squeezed tightly.

"Sit up for moment. Let me get the jacket off." Grandpa tried to demonstrate by putting his hand under Dinky's shoulder to help him into a sitting position. The cry Dinky let loose startled everyone in the camera box.

"What's wrong? What happened to Dinky?" The children crowded around.

Grandpa ignored their questions. That memory flared again, the images finally sharpened by Dinky's cry. Another boy-that fallback on his old football team-feverish in the locker room…screaming when coach tried to turn his head…

With one hand still on Dinky's shoulder, Grandpa put his other on Dinky's neck, just as he remembered cough doing. In a voice so low and soft it couldn't possibly be his, he directed the pilot to nod his head, look to his left and then to his right, touch his chin to his chest…

"I can't…it hurts…" Tears were streaking from the corners of Dinky's eyes as he tried-oh, help him, Grandpa could see him trying-and failed to follow the instructions.

"Just like Alex," Grandpa whispered, drawing back and letting the sick pilot lie still again. "Just like Alex…"

"Grandpa?" Lucy pressed close to his side, tugging at his sleeve. "Who's Alex?"

"And why can't Dinky move his head?" Tom asked.

"Get back, kids." Grandpa rubbed his own bare head, trying to swallow his panic. No foreign disease after all.

"Lucy, get Henry's attention. Tell him we need to get back to the hotel, immediately. Tom, Ashley," he turned to both boys as Lucy ran back to the screen. "I need you to get something out of the cabinet for me."

Within a few minutes of Henry persuading his parents that he was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel, Tom and Ashley had found the emergency box and brought it to Grandpa.

"Now, listen closely, boys," he said opening the lid. "I'm going to tell you what you need to do…"

* * *

The minute Henry set his camera box down in the room and closed the door, the boys were off following Grandpa's instructions. With any luck-and Grandpa fervently hoped they had some-they would back with Littles from the area to help them. To Lucy and Henry's questions he would only shake his head and claim ignorance. Yes, Dinky was sick. No, it wasn't just a virus he'd picked up from traveling. Yes, Grandpa had a friend named Alex who had sick just like Dinky. No, he couldn't remember what it was or why neither could move their heads.

"And that's all I can tell you," he insisted, gruffly putting an end to their questions. The truth was he could remember far more than that, and he wasn't about to share the words, "spinal inflammation" with any of the children.

Thank the great Littles luck was on their side. After an hour of waiting, Tom and Ashley returned with several Littles.

"It worked!" Lucy clapped her hands. Grandpa knew how she felt. Ever since their experience in New York, uncovering Little immigrants in the Statue of Liberty, he and the council had worked incessantly to find somehow to network every Little in the world. Much of the reason for going with Henry and his parents was the chance to spread the word; let every Little know who existed and where.

It was proving effective, he realized, tears in his eyes, as their new acquaintances responded quickly to Dinky's condition. Their accents were thick with the local dialect, and Grandpa struggled to answer their questions, but all became alarmingly clear when one of the newcomers lifted Dinky's shirt to reveal purple bruises along his chest.

"Great littles, help us…"

All greetings (and explanations of Henry) were shoved aside as they worked quickly-there was a hospital down the road, near the airport, with a Little clinic just inside. If they only had some way to get Dinky there…

"I can take you!" Henry exclaimed.

They were at the clinic before Grandpa could blink. Within minutes Littles were swarming the camera box, Italian flying every which way as they moved Dinky to a stretcher. Yet even in the midst of the excitement, Grandpa heard Dinky's weak call.

"What, Dinky?" he asked, bending near him.

Those blue eyes, feverish and dazed, were oddly thoughtful. "Why…why didn't Mum ever come back?"

Blood pounded Grandpa's ears as he blinked dumbly. "Why I…I…"

The pilot's eyes drooped closed again without waiting for his answer. The stretcher sped off, medical staff hiding Dinky from view. The questions from the people around him, including his own grandchildren, flooded around him.

But now, a new voice had joined; Joined, and risen to a keening pitch that claimed Grandpa's immediate attention. From the far back depths of his memory, so suddenly yanked from its recesses, came a frowning girl, with eyes fierce and troubled.

" _You're not the boss of me!"_

"Maeva?" he gasped, as the stretcher disappeared into the clinic.

" _No! Leave me alone! I don't care if I ever, ever see you again!"_


	3. Temper

Temper

" _You're not the boss of me!"_

I looked down at her and shook my head. There was only one thing to do when she was in this mood and that was bear it up. The worst Maeva ever did was scream anyway. At least, at me. In a few minutes, she had flung herself down against the tunnel wall and buried her head against her knees.

"Come on, Maeva," I said. "All I said was that I didn't think you should go out by yourself. You know Mom and Dad hate it."

"They're not my Mom and Dad!" Maeva's head popped up so she could glare at me again. Why did she have to be so dumb?

"Look, I'm not leaving you here by yourself, birdbrain," I said, ignoring her and popping down beside her. I didn't want to fight about that again. "I don't know why you have to go off alone, anyway. Why couldn't you ask Katie or Hannah to go out to the field with you?"

Maeva sniffled. I already knew the answer anyway. Katie hadn't spoken to Maeva since Maeva had shoved ashes into her hair, and Hannah was too scared to go outside. As for any of the other Littles…Maeva just didn't make friends well.

"Why do you have to go out anyway?" I asked, as Maeva wiped her nose on her sleeve. She was already a sight, dirt from the tunnels running in streaks on her skirt and blouse, her wavy ringlets wind tossed. She leaned against me. She must have been tired. "I just wanted to look up at the sky."

"You know it isn't safe to go out when the Big people are around." I tried to stroke her hair, but she pushed away from me again.

"I just wanted to see the sky! Why can't I ever do what I want?"

"Because you're a baby," I said, trying to sound like Dad.

"I'm eight!"

"Not until next month," I argued.

"You don't know that!" She was glaring at me again. "None of you know that!"

I sighed. Mom said I sounded too old when I sighed like that, but I couldn't help it.

"I'm just saying, you're too young to go outside alone. I can't even go outside alone!" I put my hands on my chest. "And I'm fifteen!"

"But at least they understand you!"

"Come on, birdbrain…"

"No!" Maeva jumped up on her feet and ran down past to me to another tunnel, shouting over her shoulder, "You just go away! I never, never want to see you again!"


	4. Diagnosis

Diagnosis

 _She was always running away. Not just from me. From everything._

 _How by the Great Little did that angry little girl become that airhead's mother?_

As the memory faded, Grandpa pulled himself together to face what was happening there and then in the clinic waiting room.

They were waiting, a nurse in her best English had told them, for tests to finish: bloodwork, x-rays. Grandpa hugged Lucy on his lap- she hadn't let him go since they'd entered the clinic- and tried to force away the memory of that other girl who refused to be comforted. The boys stirred restlessly, Tom anxiously looking around and trying to comfort Lucy, and Ashley, who, despite his scowling, eyed everything nervously.

The doctor who finally approached them was a bright eyed fellow of Grandpa's age, whose smile spoke of more experience than his coat and clipboard ever could.

"I understand you are worried," he said, after introductions had been made and he had shaken Grandpa's hand (a firm handshake, to Grandpa's satisfaction), "and I know that this place must be frightening for all of you. But we will do everything we can to help your cousin, and I am here to answer any of your questions."

"And, it is...?" Grandpa asked, sitting down again and patting Lucy's back.

"Meningitis." The doctor's eyes were grave even as he smiled for the children's sake. "We are waiting for the blood work to confirm which type before we begin treatment, but there is no doubt."

"Meningitis." Grandpa sighed, closing his eyes. "Yes, that's what coach called it with Alex. Meningitis…I'll be. To come all the way to Italy…" He could feel Lucy tugging again, but he let the doctor explain the disease to the children in his soft, caring voice. Grandpa listened, catching the same terms his parents and coach had tossed around when Alex had been taken to the clinic.

Inflammation of the spinal cord at the brain…flu like symptoms…spinal fluid…medical rubbish

All Grandpa needed to know was one thing. "When can I see him?"

He bore the doctor's scrutiny as well as he could. Yes, he looked like an old, fragile Little, but he was tougher than any that existed.

"It is best that he doesn't have many visitors," the doctor answered at last. "Let us see what the tests tell us, and then we can say." The doctor's eyes darted to Lucy and the boys. Grandpa nodded curtly, catching the message. He clapped a hand to Tom's shoulder.

"Kids," he said, drawing them in, "I want you to go back to the hotel with Henry. I'm going to stay here for a while and wait for Dinky's test results."

"But, Grandpa…"

"No buts, Tom." He regarded his grandson warmly. Eleven-years-old he might only be, but there was a deep responsibility for everyone around him that made him older than his years. He liked to think he'd been that way himself at that age.

And there was Maeva, scowling before his eyes again… "There's no reason for all of us to be here, and I want to know that you three have a place to sleep for tonight."

A nurse kindly walked the reluctant children to the entrance. Grandpa watched them go, steeling his heart. No, separating his family in a strange country was not something he wanted to do.

The doctor was watching him silently.

"Well?" Grandpa asked. "What's next steps, doctor?"

"The blood work will tell us what strain he has so we can start him on antibiotics. We have a good system here." He looked meaningfully at the ceiling overhead, where the Bigs' hospital worked.

Grandpa followed his gaze and nodded. "Alright. What's the treatment? No, don't give me all the details," he added, holding up a hand as the doctor consulted a clipboard. "I won't understand the mumbo jumbo. Just give me the basics."

"A steady stream of antibiotics. And rest. We'll keep him in isolation overnight."

"And…" Grandpa took a breath. "How's he doing?"

The doctor's smile was compassionate. "He's weak, but he's resting. Don't worry, Grandpa Little. My staff will look after him."

Grandpa finally let him go. He was offered a bed which he accepted. It was better that he stayed, in case there was any change.

Once settled, his gut stirred. With his grandchildren finally out of sight and the medical staff giving him time alone, his own heaviness descended on him like a shadow.

Poor Dinky. Poor hapless, dreaming fool, so sick and alone in isolation. His poor nephew.

Grandpa bent his head. He had never been the sensitive type in his life. All gruffness and edges-that's what his own wife had said in her laughing way. But even in this state he knew tears wouldn't hurt, and so he cried them out into a handkerchief for some time.


End file.
